Mimic
by reanwood
Summary: “You can mimic human emotions and actions, right? So… do you know how to kiss?”


**Disclaimer**: Due to an erroneous past life, karma has not seen fit to bestow upon me ownership of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Tough break.  
**Authors note:** I really just wanted to use the words 'erroneous' and 'bestow' in a sentence. And, my Word does not have the word 'cyborg' in its dictionary. How odd.

* * *

_"You can mimic human emotions and actions, right? So… do you know how to kiss?"_

John wanted to snatch the words back as soon as they'd left his mouth. Of all the times his life had felt like a dream, now more than ever he wished it were. But because someone somewhere high up in the sky absolutely hated his guts, he was left feeling more awkward than he had when Cameron had walked through the house nearly naked. He swallowed hard.

She stared at him, unblinking, calculating. Judging him in that cold, robotic way that made him feel so much like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

He wondered if she were human, would her cheeks be burning like his?

_Do you know how to kiss?_

What kind of person _says_ that to a robot? He mentally corrected himself; 'cyborg' was the safe term. And now he was stuck, unable to retract the question, willing himself to stutter out an excuse or a laugh, _something_ to negate the feeling of absolute humiliation.

He swore inwardly. And then grudgingly acknowledged his gratefulness that his mother or—God forbid—his uncle wasn't in the room. He was sure he would have ended up with bleeding ears from the lectures, a bruised ego from the berating, and the words 'she's not human' burned into his brain over and over and over.

When he looked up to find Cameron still staring at him, he wondered if that might not be a preferable fate.

Finally, he managed to find his voice. "Forget I asked," he rasped. He forced himself to move, sliding by her still form and moving to exit the room.

Her voice halted him.

"Yes," came her reply. He nearly choked, his foot suddenly refusing to obey and nearly sending him crashing into the doorframe. It was always her voice that got him; curious, honest, and just so damn _human_. He felt his stomach twist awkwardly in response to her short answer. What could he possibly say to that? She continued when he remained silent, "I have a program for that." He felt the awkwardness suddenly vanish, to be replaced by the strange dull feeling that always came when she said something that ruined her human façade; something akin to disappointment.

"Oh." He said. Normality had somewhat returned to his voice, and all was well. He was man, she was machine; reality had once again slapped him in the face and showed him how it was supposed to go. "Of course." he cleared his throat, straightened, and left the room. Upon letting the door swing shut behind him, he released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, drawing the unwelcome attention of Derek, who happened to be rooting through the fridge. Derek fixed him with a hard, searching look, and John wondered like he had many times before about the man's mind reading abilities. Somehow, his uncle just seemed to be able to know what was going on in his head and give him the appropriate expression to go with it. Right now, the expression was a deep, disapproving frown. John threw him a smile, hoping it looked convincing.

It did, and Derek went back to searching for some leftovers Sarah had hidden from him with only a grunted, "hey kid." by way of greeting. John nearly raced over to his computer set up at the kitchen table, desperate to immerse himself in a digital world where he could zone and not have to deal with constant reminders of being humanity's last hope, Cameron being a machine, his desperate need of a haircut…

Honestly, a teenage boy could only handle so much.

Had he stayed in the room with Cameron, he might have caught the instant her stare soften into a gaze, her shoulders lose their rigid, upright position and her mouth begin to form words, as if to ask if he would like a demonstration. But he hadn't, and the moment was as lost as the leftover pizza was to Derek Reese's stomach.

—end—

**AN:** Because Derek seems like the type to eat the last of the pizza. Also, this has been written out at nearly midnight, so if I've made mistakes, please point them out to me so that I can fix them. Thanks.


End file.
